


you and i and the things we'll leave behind

by abcghimno



Category: Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Moving On, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abcghimno/pseuds/abcghimno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days, and then weeks, and then months after Lennie's death, George stays on the ranch, working stoically in the day only to spend his money drinking in the night. Slim ends up being the one who watches over him, in a fashion, bringing him back to the bunkhouse when George is too drunk to do much of anything. </p><p>And then one night, George kisses Slim. From then on, things start changing for the both of them. It might just be time to George to stop digging himself further down and to start moving on instead.</p><p>(Rating may change *sweats*)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i and the things we'll leave behind

**Author's Note:**

> So, as is standard, we read this in English. I then accidentally started to ship Slim and George. I then accidentally wrote this. Woops.

It was a midsummer night that hung hot and heavy on the ranch. Damp air weighed down on the leaf-dripping branches of the trees, a ghost wind slowly sending then rippling like a green ocean. In the barn the dogs squeaked and groaned, too tired to do much else but growl and sleep, heads lying on their paws. From the bunkhouse came a golden glow, a single lamp illuminating a game of cards. 

Candy lay on his bunk, facing the wall on his side. Carlson and Whit still sat at the box that served as their table. Whit drummed his fingers against the wood. He gazed down at his hand and yet was not paying attention, his eyes slipping from the cards to his hand and then snapping back again. Curley paced the room.

Finally he came to a stop, clasped his hands together in front of him, and asked, “When the devil is them fellas gonna get here?”

Whit looked up at him, his fingers ceasing their movement for a moment. “Slim set out a while ago. Figger he oughta be back soon. Don’t take that long there ‘n’ back.”

“George needs to break that damn habit.” Carlson shook his head. “Man’s a good worker, but a good worker ain’t so good when he’s off gettin’ drunk ev’ry night and not much sober when day comes ‘round.”

“Ain’t no reason for it,” Whit sighed. “S’been months. Woulda expected him to take his fifty bucks a long time ago and gotten the hell outta town.”

“Well, ain't none of us understand George. ‘Cept Slim, maybe.” Carlson paused.

“Yeah well Slim ain’t stopping George from goin’ out and gettin’ his ass wasted, so understandin’ ain’t doin’ no good,” Curley muttered. “God damn, when the hell are those two gonna get back here?”

Candy rolled over onto his back. “Why y’so worried, Curley?”

“Ain’t worried. Jest don’t want two of my men gettin’ drunk all night,” Curley snapped.

Carlson leveled a steady glare at Curley. “We ain’t your men.” Curley met his eyes for a few seconds, then conceded.

“Well they better be back soon!” he snarled, and stomped off to his bunk. Carlson snickered to himself then turned back to the cards on the table. The lamp flickered slightly, the warm light of the bunkhouse wavering as if it were alive.

Off along the road George shook and wobbled on unsteady legs, one arm slung heavily over Slim’s shoulder. Slim struggled to support him, one arm wrapped around his torso while the other held the arm over his shoulder. George’s head lolled to the side so he was looking up at Slim.

“God damn it, George,” Slim said more to himself than to George, “How much did you drink?”

“Dunno,” George answered, trying to shrug but only succeeding in making Slim tilt dangerously to one side.

Slim grunted as he readjusted himself to support George once again. “You need to stop this.”

George was silent.

“Ain’t doin’ you no good. What’re you tryin’ to do by goin’ out and drinkin’ your life away?”

“Helps me forget,” George slurred, facing towards the ground. “Can’t sleep otherwise.”

Slim stopped walking and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in. When he spoke again, it was gentler, softer. “You hadda, George. Ain’t nobody blamin’ you for what you did but you.”

George made a harsh noise Slim barely recognized as laughter. “Jest me,” he repeated like it was a joke. “Yeah, jest me.”

“Dammit, George. Ain’t funny! It’s been a month. And God I know it was hard, God I know, George, but you’re killing yourself.” Slim reached out and turned George’s face towards him. “This ain’t what Lennie died for.”

George’s eyes flickered upwards and for a moment stared straight into Slim’s, a piercing gaze Slim swore saw into his soul. Then he looked back down again and the arm slung over Slim’s shoulder began to move.

“Whoa--George--” Slim called out as warning as George stumbled and wobbled. His hand came to a rest on the opposite shoulder it had started from, and for more support he laid his other heavily on Slim’s other shoulder.

“Slim,” he said, strangely clear. Slim waited, confused.

“George, what in the hell--”

George’s hands slid slowly upwards, inwards, from his shoulders to his neck, and Slim felt every second. Yet he did not move an inch, frozen as finally George’s fingers culed tightly in his hair. George stumbled a little closer.

Slim licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. George looked up at him, face unreadable.

And then he reached up and pulled Slim down and their lips met somewhere in the middle in a kiss. It wasn't pretty--an unplanned, sloppy mess, filled with the taste of alcohol, but Slim couldn’t bring himself to move for a second because George was kissing him.

George. Slim liked George. He was a bit on the small side, maybe, but he didn’t look half bad. He was hardworking and smarter than he gave himself credit for, too--’not smart, my ass,’ Slim had thought to himself numerous times. George was unique, and interesting, and God it had been a long time since Slim had met someone who cared. God it had been a long time since Slim had met someone and cared. 

He cared about George. Maybe--maybe a little too much.

George was kissing him, he repeated in his mind. George is _drunk,_ came to his mind a moment later, and he immediately pulled away in a sharp motion. George practically fell forward onto his chest, one hand slipping from his shoulder. Slim heard his heart beating in his ears but nothing else.

“Slim,” George murmured sleepily, and once again Slim’s mouth went dry.

“Let’s get you back to the ranch,” he said after a moment of pause. George nodded into his chest, sluggish. “You need to sleep.”

“Mm.” Slim took this as agreement and pulled George’s arm over his shoulder again. He found himself licking his lips again but stopped himself halfway through. He tasted alcohol and a shiver ran down his spine. The memory of the feeling made his lips tingle and Slim resisted the urge to lick them once again.

When they stumbled back to the bunkhouse, Slim had alcohol on his breath. Carlson, Curley and Whit looked him over. Nobody liked to talk too much when he brought George back. He practically threw George onto his bunk before he made his way over to his own.

“What took you so long?” Curley asked, peeved. Slim stood still in front of his bunk, not even turning around to face Curley.

‘He kissed me,’ Slim’s mind screamed. It took a moment for him to come up with a good answer. “You try draggin’ that bastard back on your own one of these nights, then you can talk, Curley.”

Curley shut up at that, and Slim clambered into bed.

That night Slim couldn’t sleep for a long, long time. He had too much on his mind. What George had done to Lennie, what George was doing to himself. What George had just done that night. The memory of a feeling on his lips. The taste of--he squeezed his eyes shut. 

The taste of kissing George.

‘He won’t remember it in the morning,’ Slim told himself. ‘You can just pretend it never happened. Go back to normal.’ 

But he wasn't sure if he could live with that. If that was what he really wanted. Yeah, he’d been shocked, and he’d pulled away, but Slim couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that had wanted to kiss George back.

 

The morning came too quick, before Slim was ready for it. He felt tired, still, sluggish as he sat up and then stood. It had become a habit of his to check on George in the mornings, as he usually woke with a splitting headache. Despite his better judgment, he did the same that morning. ‘He doesn’t remember,’ Slim assured himself. ‘He was drunk, and lonely, and sad. That’s it. You forget about it too now.’

George was on his back, squinting upwards. His eyes flickered over to Slim.

“Good morning,” Slim greeted him. George winced. “Don’t tell me, you got a headache.”

“I’ll live,” George groaned, though he made no signs of moving.

Slim laughed and warned him, “Better get up soon.”

“Yeah, yeah. You go on. I’ll be up,” George told Slim dismissively. He raised one hand to place it over his eyes. Satisfied, Slim turned and left the bunkhouse, the thought of last night retreating to the back of his consciousness. He’d forget all about it soon enough, he was sure.

Although George was a little late, nobody commented on his arrival when he finally joined the rest of the ranch hands. They’d learned the signs of days when George was more curt and surly, and by now did their best to stay out of his way. Slim was the only exception to this, but Slim was the exception a lot of times when it came to George.

The first few days after all the mess had died down, after George had started drinkking, he’d been sluggish and a little unwieldy. However, now experience allowed him to work well enough, if not exceptionally, even with a pounding headache. He just needed to grit his teeth and converse as little as possible. That was the ground rule around George: don’t talk to him more than absolutely necessary. Curley went out of his way to avoid even touching the rule, usually getting someone else to relay information to George.

The summer day wore on hot and hard, the sun a glaring overseer beating down on the ranch hands, stretching every minute into an hour or longer. When the day ground to a end, everyone wiped the sweat from their brows and gratefully went in to eat and to wash up. Slim kept an eye on George as he dragged his feet going in. 

Something, Slim wasn't sure what, possessed him to call out. “George?”

George turned to him, inquisitive.

Slim said it without thinking. “I think you oughta do yourself a favor. Don't go out nowhere tonight. It doesn't do you no good.” He expected George to at least bristle or respond, but instead he was met with silence. George passed him by, and Slim watched him go. He wasn't sure what he’d hoped to accomplish by saying that.

“Well, see if I drag your ass back tonight then!” he yelled suddenly, and immediately regretted it. Yet George, once again, said nothing.

How could it be that Slim’s mind was dominated by the events of the last night, but George remembered none of it? Slim couldn’t do this. George would have to drag himself back. Slim couldn’t go get him with the all-too-clear memory of the kiss. Their kiss. 

‘Goddammit, Slim,’ he scolded himself, ‘what the hell are you gonna do now?’


End file.
